Page 64 of The Play

“There,” Grant said, as he sent the text off.

Darcy looked up from the book she was reading.

“Congratulations,” she said wryly, “and now you wait.”

It had occurred to Grant that Deacon might not answer right away, but it still sucked to wait.

He settled in with his drink and his laptop and told himself it would all work out, in the end.

Chapter 10

Deacon was still fucking pissed.

In love, miserable, and fucking pissed.

Not necessarily in that order, either.

His phone dinged, and glancing at his screen, Deacon was surprised to see a second text from Grant.

No, it was his third, in fourteen hours.

Not that Deacon was counting or anything.

You totally are. You’re hoarding them like you’re a dragon and they’re filled with gold.

But of course that didn’t mean that he’d answered them, or anything. He didn’t know what to say to Grant. Why did he even want to talk? When Deacon had wanted to talk a whole freaking week ago, Grant hadn’t been interested. Been dismissive, even.

And now he wanted to talk? To say something new? Or just to rehash everything he’d already said?

Deacon didn’t know, but he didn’t know if he wanted to face that again—could face that again. He didn’t need to spend the next week even more pissed off than he’d been the one before.

He’d gotten more texts, too. From Carter and also from Micah and Beck and Riley, inviting him to the Pirate’s Booty for their weekly victory party. And he loved his friends and teammates, he did, but no matter how great they were, they weren’t a substitute for his best friend.

He missed Jem so much he was practically a lost limb. But he couldn’t call him, because Jem was so happy with Mr. Lumberjack, back in Christmas Falls, and if he even had an inkling how upset Deacon was, he’d show back up in Charleston.

Deacon couldn’t handle that guilt on top of everything else.

He’d texted the group chat back, letting them know he wasn’t up for going out tonight.

He wasn’t up for much. Nobody wanted to be around him when he was like this, no matter if they kept claiming otherwise, but then Landry, who almost never participated in their group chat, had texted him separately.

Don’t hide. Hiding isn’t going to change anything, except make you feel worse, was all he’d said, and Deacon had wanted to scream. Punch a wall. Throw his phone to the bathroom floor.

But he didn’t. Because fuck it, he was an adult.

Clearly Riley had told his boyfriend about what he’d seen—admittedly, not much, but likely enough to put two and two together and get the correct answer of four—because Landry knew more than he should.

He texted Landry back, because he didn’t know how to leave well enough alone.

And watching y’all couple off is gonna make me feel better?

Landry didn’t respond right away, but by the time Deacon was out of the shower, contemplating whether to put on sweatpants or jeans—to spend the evening at home, like he wanted, or go out to the Pirate’s Booty, the way his teammates wanted him to—he’d texted back.

No, I’m not gonna pretend that doesn’t suck, Landry said, and Deacon had to give him full points for honesty, but we love you, you’re our brother, and you’re hurting. Better to do it around us than alone.

And goddamn it, he was right.

It was at least a little better to do it with people he cared about than by himself.

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